


Night Bus

by allsorrowsborne



Series: A Feeling, Undefined [2]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, First Time, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Post-kiss, Season 3, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:48:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23957182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsorrowsborne/pseuds/allsorrowsborne
Summary: A different bus, a different closeness. Hurt and comfort and no going back.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: A Feeling, Undefined [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1743235
Comments: 18
Kudos: 148





	Night Bus

**Author's Note:**

> My drop in the post-kiss bucket.

It has been six days.

On the first day Eve was terrified. Her hands shook as she scanned her bus card, sitting downstairs near the exit. On day two she swallowed embarrassment and went upstairs to her usual seat. The next day Eve gazed out the window, thoughts filled with the way she punched her, how she kissed. Day four was smells and seat back scrambles, forearm pressure, legs. On day five Eve looked for her, scanning streets for shapes or signs. Today, day six, is disappointment. It won’t repeat. Villanelle has gone.

The day moves slowly. Eve fills it with tasks. It still feels empty. Jamie phones and invites her to dinner. She accepts. She doesn’t know why. They drink wine and play cards. He tells her he is divorcing his husband. He asks about Niko, Kenny, the assassin. She doesn’t trust him. She doesn’t trust anyone. She drinks the wine and leaves.

\---

The night bus takes forty minutes to arrive. Eve takes a seat up top. She rests her head against the window. It bumps lightly as the bus moves. Vibrations lull her to sleep.

When she awakes, Villanelle is there, walking towards her. She slides into the seat behind. She doesn’t say “hi Eve.” Doesn’t say “smell me.” Doesn’t say anything. Just sits.

Eve stares blankly out the window. She doesn’t acknowledge her. Doesn’t say “fuck you.” Doesn’t do anything. Just sits.

They move together through London in silence.

Twenty-five minutes. A drunken couple kiss noisily, one sitting in the other’s lap. A man plays on his phone. A recorded voice over a speaker announces upcoming stops. Eve counts the seats. She counts the windows. She reads and rereads the “mind your head” sign. She does not turn around.

She cannot hear Villanelle’s breathing, but still she knows its depth and pace.

Eve presses the “stop” button. Nothing stops. She moves downstairs with the bus in motion, keeping her footing, not looking back.

\---

They walk through the streets, apart, together, Eve leading from a distance. She takes the long route, through the park with the unlit path. They pass bushes where Villanelle could drag her, violent and wordless. They move through an underpass that smells of piss. Eve could walk like this forever, no need to separate promise from threat. But soon they will run out of distance. Soon they will have to arrive.

A gate. An entryway. Two flights of stairs. The landing. A doorway. Eve finds her key. She leaves the door ajar. 

\---

The flat smells. There are take away boxes in the sink. An unmade bed. Empty bottles for days. Eve could tidy. She could pick up underwear from the floor. Crack a window to freshen the air. She doesn’t.

The door clicks shut. Villanelle steps inside. She stares at Eve, disbelieving. Doesn’t speak. _What should I say, Eve?_ Doesn’t move. _Where should I go?_ Eve raises an eyebrow, silently waiting for some culmination, her deadly stalker to finish the deed. Villanelle sighs, shakes her head.

What the fuck?

Eve needs ordinary. She runs a bath and locks the door, water too hot on skin. She waits for Villanelle to enter. To kick down the door and push her under. Make her choke on water and soap. Eve waits until the bath turns cold. She gets out and grabs a towel. There are no clean clothes in the room. Her shirt smells of smoke and sweat, her underwear of pussy and piss. She puts them on.

Villanelle sits at the table. Her jacket hangs on the back of a chair. Her boots are neatly placed at the door. _I remembered, Eve, from the day that you asked me_. It could be domestic. It is not.

Villanelle doesn’t act the way that she’s supposed to. She glances at Eve. Looks down at her hands. Tentative. An apparition that might disappear, unsure if it wants to return from the dead.

Eve is too tired for this shit. She changes her clothes and gets into bed. Villanelle can sit there all fucking night. Eve closes her eyes. Sleep does not come.

\---

A kitchen chair scrapes. Soft socked footsteps on the floor. The mattress squeaks and sags. A rush of cold air as the duvet rises. A new warmth as it covers them both.

They stare at the ceiling. Wordless, still. Villanelle adjusts her weight. Teenage girls on a weekend sleepover, waiting.

Eve could do it. She could cross the space between them quickly. Hand or mouth. She’s done it before. Villanelle could do it faster. She does not. Villanelle covers distance differently. A scent of power, longing, sex. Eve takes it in.

\---

 _I miss the smell of her_. Perfume on buses, in stolen suitcases. Flowers on doorsteps. Sweat on skin. _I miss the smell of him_. Carolyn. Kenny. The loss of a body. _I miss the smell of him_. Fuck. Not now.

Eve hasn’t cried. Not for a long time. She screams and breaks things. She passes out drunk. She doesn’t cry.

 _Kenny came here_.

She doesn’t do this.

 _Kenny knew_.

She keeps it buried.

 _Kenny forgave her_.

No.

Eve turns away, blinking rapidly. She pulls the covers over her head.

\---

It shouldn’t happen like this.

This isn’t how she wants to gasp, face in mattress, sobs escaping through her fingers. These are not the right convulsions, body shuddering like a baby, knees curled up into her chest. The hands upon her move the wrong way, roll her over, finding an obscene kind of wetness on her face, wiping it dry.

These aren’t the sounds that should break their silence. A keening that Eve cannot quiet, a humming that she barely hears.

A cold foot brushes her ankle. _I do not know how to do this, Eve_. A sleeve to her face wipes away snot. Eve cannot look at her. She doesn’t need to. Busy hands arrange their bodies, straighten pillows. _I can learn_.

Eve wants furious hate-filled sex. A one-time fuck to be taken and left. A fetishized body of muscle and power, with strength to tear Eve into pieces, like Eve ripped out a teddy bear’s heart.

Not this.

Hurting. Trying. Helping. No.

They should not do this.

It’s too fucking gentle. _I’ve got you, Eve_. It’s too much to bear. _I’ll hold you, okay?_ Eve just wants to fucking stop crying. She grabs Villanelle’s hand and pulls it down, pushing it roughly between her legs.

“No, Eve.”

The first words Villanelle speaks all evening. Eve does not release her hand.

It’s too mixed up. The kiss is wet with spit and sadness. Touches slow and much too cautious. Soft moans that feel like grieving. Moving hands that sound like sex. Villanelle gives in and fucks Eve gently. Eve comes and it just feels lonely. She hates the feelings, hates the falling. She cannot stop holding Villanelle’s hand.

\---

They lie together in a different quietness. Morning is still hours away. Eve circles the arm that tried to kill her, blankets tucked around her shoulders. Almost comfort. Could this be a place of safety? Second time is often better. They sleep together first.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> That episode has made me soft! Comment/kudos if you like it. Say hi on twitter @olderthaneve.


End file.
